I’m not much of a talker, but I’ve decided to share a few stories from my life, or perhaps, first and foremost, to write them down for future generations. I hope that one day, when my kids are older, they can come back to these tales and understand who their dad was.

Even though they’re at that rebellious age now, with little interest in anything outside their own world, I remember perfectly well what it was like to be their age. Who hasn’t been a teenager? I used to brush off family stories, too, and now I’m the one calling my 70-year-old parents to learn more about the past.

Recently, a box of old film slides my parents gave me fell into my hands. While looking through them, I came across a photo that surprised me. In it, I’m maybe a year old, sitting confined in a playpen built by my parents. The pen was standing in the middle of a meadow, cobbled together from planks and draped with various blankets. The sight of that photo made me smile and brought on a wave of nostalgia.

But why did my parents lock me in a cage like that? This was the seventies, 1979 to be exact – a completely different time from now. Life was simpler, but also harsher. My family ran a poultry farm, and everyone had their duties. There was no time to look after children all day, and there were two of us back then – me and my cousin Marcin, who was a year older. Marcin, unlike me, was always well-behaved; he could find something to do and would play quietly. I, on the other hand, was a child who was constantly running off – whether barefoot over stones or across hot asphalt. I was unruly and hard to keep an eye on.

My parents had their hands full of work, and the surroundings weren’t exactly safe for a child to be left unsupervised. All around the farm were fields full of cows, forests full of foxes, and a military training ground where exercises were often held. The risk of me getting hurt was pretty high. And so, I ended up in this juvenile prison!

Looking back, I can say that those events had their own charm, and the simplicity of life, though sometimes strange from today’s perspective, was also full of sincerity and warmth.

This is just one of many memories I’m rediscovering while going through old photos. Many of them bring a smile to my face, and some make me reflective. I’m glad I have the chance to write these stories down and share them, even if my children aren’t interested in them right now. Maybe one day, just like me now, they’ll want to know more.

That’s all for today. Until next time